Abelard and Heloise, trans. A.S. Richardson, (Boston: James R. Osgood & Co., 1884)

HELOISE

A LETTER of consolation you had written to a friend, my dearest Abelard, was lately as by chance put into my hands. The superscription in a moment told me from whom it came, and the sentiments I felt for the writer compelled me to read it more eagerly. I had lost the reality; I hoped therefore from his words, a faint image of himself, to draw some comfort. But alas! for I well remember it, almost every line was marked with gall and wormwood. It related the lamentable story of

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our conversion, and the long list of your own unabated sufferings. Indeed, you amply fulfilled the promises you there made to your friend, that, in comparison of your own, his misfortunes should appear as nothing, or as light as air. Having exposed the persecutions you had suffered from your masters, and the cruel deed of my uncle, you were naturally led to a recital of the hateful and invidious conduct of Albericus of Reims, and Lotulphus of Lombardy. By their suggestions, your admirable work on the Trinity was condemned to the flames, and yourself were thrown into confinement. This you did not omit to mention. The machinations of the abbot of St. Denys and of your false brethren are there brought for but chiefly - for from them you had most to suffer - the calumnious aspersions of those false apostles, Norbert and Bernard, whom envy had roused against you.

It was even, you say, imputed as a crime to you to have given the name of Paraclete, contrary to the common practice, to the oratory you had erected. In time, the incessant persecutions of that cruel tyrant of St. Gildas, and of those execrable monks, whom yet you call your children and to which at this moment you are exposed, close the melancholy tale of a life of sorrow.

Who, think you, could read or hear these things and not be moved to tears? What then must be my situation? The singular precision with which each event is stated could but more strongly renew my sorrows. I was doubly agitated, because I perceived the tide of danger was still rising against you. Are we then to despair of your life? And must our breasts, trembling at every sound, be hourly alarmed by the rumours of that terrible event?

For Christ's sake, my Abelard - and He, I trust, as yet protects you - do inform us, and that repeatedly, of each

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circumstance of your present dangers. I and my sisters are the sole remains of all your friends. Let us, at least, partake of your joys and sorrows. The condolence of others is used to bring some relief to the sufferer, and a load laid on many shoulders is more easily supported. But should the storm subside a little, then be even more solicitous to inform us, for your letters will be messengers of joy. In short, whatever be their contents, to us they must always bring comfort; because this at least they will tell us, that we are remembered by you . . . .

My Abelard, you well know how much I lost in losing you; and that infamous act of treachery which, by a cruelty before unheardof, deprived me of you, even tore me from myself. The loss was great, indeed, but the manner of it was doubly excruciating. When the cause of grief is most pungent, then should consolation apply her strongest medicines. But it is you only can administer relief: by you I was wounded, and by you I must be healed. It is in your power alone to give me pain, to give me joy, and to give me comfort. And it is you only that are obliged to do it. I have obeyed the last title of your commands; and so far was I unable to oppose them, that, to comply with your wishes, I could bear to sacrifice myself. One thing remains which is still greater, and will hardly be credited; my love for you had risen to such a degree of frenzy, that to please you, it even deprived itself of what alone in the universe it valued, and that forever. No sooner did I receive your commands than I quitted at once the habit of the world, and with it all the reluctance of my nature. I meant that you should be the sole possessor of whatever I had once a right to call my own.

Heaven knows! in all my love it was you, and you only I sought for. I looked for no dowry, no alliances of mar

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riage. I was even insensible to my own pleasures; nor had I a will to gratify. All was absorbed in you. I call Abelard to witness. In the name of wife there may be something more holy, more imposing; but the name of mistress was ever to me a more charming sound. The more I humbled myself before you, the greater right I thought I should have to your favour; and thus also I hoped the less to injure the splendid reputation you had acquired.

This circumstance, on your own account, you did not quite forget to mention in the letter to your friend. You related also some of the arguments I then urged to deter you from that fatal marriage; but you suppressed the greater part, by which I was induced to prefer love to matrimony and liberty to chains. I call Heaven to witness! Should Augustus, master of the world, offer me his hand in marriage, and secure to me the uninterrupted command of the universe, I should deem it at once more eligible and more honourable to be called the mistress of Abelard than the wife of Caesar. The source of merit is not in riches or in power; these are the gifts of fortune; but virtue only gives worth and excellence . . . .

But that happiness which in others is sometimes the effect of fancy, in me was the child of evidence. They might think their husbands perfect, and were happy in the idea, but I knew that you were such, and the universe knew the same. Thus, the more my affection was secured from all possible error, the more steady became its flame. Where was found the king or the philosopher that had emulated your reputation? Was there a village, a city, a kingdom, that did not ardently wish even to see you? When you appeared in public, who did not run to behold you? And when you withdrew, every neck was stretched, every eye sprang forward to pursue you. The

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married and the unmarried women, when Abelard was away, longed for his company; and when he was present, every bosom was on fire. No lady of distinction, no princess, that did not envy Heloise the possession of her Abelard.

You possessed, indeed, two qualifications - a tone of voice and a grace in singing - which gave you the control over every female heart. These powers were peculiarly yours; for I do not know that they ever fell to the share of any other philosopher. To soften, by playful amusement, the stern labours of philosophy, you composed several sonnets on love and on similar subjects. These you were often heard to sing when the harmony of your voice gave new charms to the expression. In all circles nothing was talked of but Abelard; even the most ignorant, who could not judge of composition, were enchanted by the melody of your voice. Female hearts were unable to resist the impression. Thus was my name soon carried to distant nations; for the loves of Heloise and Abelard were the constant theme of all your songs. What wonder if I became the subject of general envy?

You possessed, besides, every endowment of mind and body. But, alas! if my happiness then raised the envy of others, will they not now be compelled to pity me? And surely even she who was then my enemy will now drop a tear at my sad reverse of fortune.

You know, Abelard, I was the great cause of your misfortunes; but yet I was not guilty. It is the motive with which we act, and not the event of things, that makes us criminal. Equity weighs the intention, and not the mere actions we may have done. What, at all times, were my dispositions in your regard, you who knew them, can only judge. To you I refer all my actions, and on your decision I rest my cause. I call no other witness . . . .

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By that God, then, to whom your life is consecrated, I conjure you, give me so much of yourself as is at your disposal; that is, send me some lines of consolation. Do it with this design, at least; that, my mind being more at ease, I may serve God with more alacrity. When formerly the love of pleasure was your pursuit, how often did I hear from you? In your songs the name of Heloise was made familiar to every tongue: it was heard in every street; the walls of every house repeated it. With how much greater propriety might you now call me to God, than you did then to pleasure? Weigh your obligations; think on my petition.

I have written you a long letter, but the conclusion shall be short: My only friend, farewell.